His fog, his amphetamines and his pearls
Lofi shot off the monitor at the recent EMP exhibit, the entire footage of an
Eat The Document outtake recently edited by Martin Scorcese for
No Direction Home.
I don't entirely get the Chaplinesque--To paraphrase crunchland, Hey, Skeezix--it's a talkie...
posted by y2karl
on Oct 27, 2006 -
31 comments
Are you not amazed at how she evokes soul, body, hearing, tongue, sight, skin, as though they were external and belonged to someone else? And how at one and the same moment she both freezes and burns, is irrational and sane, is terrified and nearly dead, so that we observe in her not a single emotion but a whole concourse of emotions? Such things do, of course, commonly happen to people in love. Sappho’s supreme excellence lies in the skill with which she selects the most striking and vehement circumstances of the passions and forges them into a coherent whole. Longinus, On the Sublime Sappho’s poem of jealousy survives only because the ancient critic Longinus quoted it as a supreme example of poetic intensity--now Ken Knabb has put up 26 translations of it in the English at the
Gateway to the Vast Realms , the literature and texts section of his
Bureau of Public Secrets. And wait! There's more!
posted by y2karl
on Oct 2, 2004 -
10 comments
A thrush in the syringa sings.
`Hunger ruffles my wings, fear,
lust, familiar things.
Death thrusts hard. My sons
by hawk's beak, by stones, by cat and weasel, die.
From a shaken bush I
list familiar things,
fear, hunger, lust.'
O gay thrush!
Basil Bunting,
Basil Bunting,
Basil Bunting.
The
Return of
PoemFilter
posted by y2karl
on Nov 9, 2002 -
27 comments
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
The Collected Poems Of William Butler Yeats
posted by y2karl
on Nov 3, 2002 -
87 comments
MetaFilter in six lines. In order to know things well, we must
know them in detail, and detail, being
infinite, makes all our knowledge superficial and
incomplete.
François, Duc De La Rochefoucauld
posted by y2karl
on Oct 9, 2001 -
8 comments
